Guns, Not Roses

~Chapter Three: I'd Rather Have a Cheetah than a Cheater~

The whole afternoon, Savannah Ardeur was dancing nude around her apartment, drunk on Angelino’s hardcore booze and singing Abba songs at the top of her voice.

It didn’t matter that Angelino, or, worse, her father could’ve walked in at any moment. She just needed to vent. She needed to scream.

Love.

Eminem was right. It really was ‘evol’.

Why couldn’t she get lucky? Why couldn’t she be like Jennifer Lopez in The Back-Up Plan? Or Sandra Bullock in The Proposal? It’s rocky in the beginning, but all lovey-dovey at the end.

Why couldn’t reality be like that? Why couldn’t her life be like that?

Sure, her relationship with Stan had started on Cloud Nine. He’d been sweet. Doting, even. But the sex? Never happened.

Why? Because he was still in the proverbial closet and didn’t want to admit it.

His parting words to her? “Thank you, Sav. Thank you for showing me that I was lying to myself.”

Basically, thank you for showing me that being gay is a million times better than being with you.

How was she supposed to feel about that?

She’d waxed for him. Waxed!

You only waxed if you were really into a guy!

So, instead of crying her eyes out because she’d spent six months with a guy who wasn’t even interested in her gender, she decided that getting wasted on South African wine and doing a striptease for Casper the Friendly Ghost was a better option.

In hindsight, her gaydar was probably broken.

*

She woke up with a pounding headache, and immediately felt yesterday’s food contents swelling up her throat.

She made it to the toilet bowl just in time to spew out  her spleen.

So this is why I never get drunk.

She looked at herself in the mirror.

Bloodshot eyes. Check. Pale skin. Check. Greasy hair and chapped lips? Double check.

No wonder the men she dated were either gay or players.

But then, why was she a twenty-five-year-old virgin, if there were so many players in the playground?

Quit lying, Savannah Ardeur. You're not really a virgin, remember? Her conscience had an annoyingly self-righteous voice.

Perhaps it was just her shitty luck. And the fact that she was always with a bodyguard. A bodyguard, for goodness’ sake.

She took a lovely hot bubble bath and thoroughly washed her hair. It was time to dye it blue again, if only to piss her father off.

There was a knock on the bathroom door.

“Who is it?” she called, even though she very well knew who it was.

Angelino’s deep, sultry voice drifted through the door. “You haven’t had breakfast yet?”

She wrapped a towel around herself. “Nope. Help yourself to whatever’s edible, Angie baby.”

“I was thinking about you, Savannah.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, don’t think too much. You might get a migraine.” She pulled the door open.

Angelino took a step backwards. “Wrong side of the bed, huh?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

She walked past him to the dressing mirror. “Wrong side of life, you mean.” Casually, she dropped her towel and faced him. He averted his eyes. “Come on, Angie. You’ve seen me naked before. Stop acting so coy.”

“Savannah, stop.” He went for the door. She blocked his path.

“I just need someone to put some sunscreen on my back. I plan to spend my morning at the poolside.”

But maybe it was more than that. Maybe she wanted this six-foot-four Italian hulk to fuck her brains out.

Angelino looked skyward. “If your father catches me –”

She put her index finger to his mouth. “He won’t.”

“Then turn around. Pass me the Nivea.”